Darkness Devours (Dark Angels 3)

“What is it this time?” he said, his voice resigned.

“Just got a call from Jak. Apparently three men just busted their way into Logan’s secretary’s place. You need to get someone out there immediately.”

“Why the hell is Jak there, and not you?” he snapped.

“Long story, but I’m about to head there now.”

“Ris—”

I knew what was coming, so I hung up. It’d piss him off, but right now I was more concerned about Jak’s safety than Rhoan’s fury. Jak might be a werewolf—and more than capable of handling himself in any normal situation—but this was about as far from normal as you could get. Just because they looked like human males didn’t mean they actually were.

“Azriel—”

The rest of the sentence caught in my throat as Azriel’s heat and arms wrapped around me. Then we were out of there, zipping through the gray fields so fast they were little more than a blur. My feet touched solid ground a heartbeat later, and the air became thick with the sound of screaming—a scream that stopped all too abruptly. The brief silence that followed was broken by the snarls of a wolf—Jak.

“Stay here,” Azriel said, immediately disappearing again.

I snorted and ran for the house. You’d think he’d know by now that I wasn’t about to obey an order like that—no matter how sensible it might be.

The snarling had come from a town house at the rear of a block of eight. More than a dozen people had gathered in the driveways of the other houses—all of them peering toward the very last town house in the row—but no one approached it. Which was pretty sensible, given that most of the people watching were either women with children or elderly.

I ran past them all and around the double garage that dominated the front of the town house. The front door had been forced open, with one half left swinging from a hinge that was barely holding on and the other lying in pieces on the white tiled floor. There was no sound coming from inside the town house now. Everything was ominously quiet.

Ignoring the tension that curled through my belly, and hoping like hell that Jak was okay, I drew Amaya and stepped inside cautiously. The purple fire flicking down her length was muted and halfhearted, and her hissing was little more than its usual background noise. If there was danger here, she wasn’t sensing it.

Which didn’t mean I shouldn’t be careful.

I took several wary steps. Bits and pieces of furniture lay scattered everywhere, evidence of a fierce fight. The air was rich with both scent of blood and the musky odor of wolf, and twined within it was the fainter, more odious scent of unknown males. Human males.

But three human males—no matter how strong—shouldn’t have been able to overwhelm a werewolf unless they’d gotten the drop on him.

Or they’d been armed with silver.

I walked cautiously through the living room and into the dining room. There was less mess here, an indication, perhaps, that more running than fighting had happened.

I stepped into the next room—the kitchen—and saw Jak. He was sitting on the floor leaning back against one of the cabinets, his eyes closed and an expression of pain etched into his face. He was nursing an arm that was bloody and torn, and his clothes were less than decent—although I wasn’t sure if that was a result of the shape-shifting or the fight. But he was alive, seemed relatively unhurt—slashed arm and pained expression aside—and relief slithered through me.

Until I looked beyond him. A gray-haired woman lay still and silent on the floor near the small table, her neck twisted at such an odd angle it could only mean it had been broken. Her eyes were open but unseeing, and an expression of terror had been forever frozen onto her face.

Jak hadn’t been able to save her. I closed my eyes and cursed the killing efficiency of Nadler’s men.

But at least Jak had gotten one of them—and the bastard was still alive. He was lying several feet away from the woman, his legs also twisted into odd shapes. He probably would have been screaming had he been conscious, and part of me was tempted to slap him awake just so he could suffer for the death he’d caused.

I resisted the impulse, though, and sheathed Amaya as I walked over to Jak. His nostrils flared; then a slight smile touched his lips—indications that he knew I was close even if he didn’t open his eyes.

I knelt wearily beside him. “I thought I told you to stay outside and wait for us.”

“Yeah, I’m going to do that when someone is being murdered.” He finally opened his eyes and gave me a somewhat annoyed look. “I’m not that much of a bastard, Risa.”

“I didn’t say you were. I just didn’t want you hurt.”

I gently pulled away the remnants of his shirt and inspected the wounds underneath. The knife wounds were long and deep, and while some of the bleeding had been slowed by his shift back into human form, the deeper ones were still weeping.

“You didn’t?” he said in a surprised voice. “I would have thought the opposite.”

I gave him a lopsided smile. “If I’d wanted you hurt, I would have done it myself. Which doesn’t mean,” I added hastily, as his gaze warmed, “that I am, in any way, ever going to forgive you for what you wrote.”

He grimaced. “I sometimes regret what I wrote, but I’m afraid it never lasts long. It was a good story, Risa, and it was the truth.”